THE GREY NIGHT. 
I25 
With me on either hand lie slain 
— Ah !  Never more to rise again ! — 
Virtue and beauty.  Dark and dank, 
The low hill’s baked and barren bank ! 
There at my feet the glib scribe scrawls 
His flatulent gnostic caterwauls 
For gaping agapic festivals. 
By him the red-haired harlot sprawls, 
And the blotchy beast that suckled me 
Squats like a toad, and shamelessly 
Ogles the crowd of bystanders 
With those wicked glittering eyes of hers. 
Perched high above me the foul bird 
My father belches his lewd word, 
Triumphant in his scheme’s success 
That binds the globe in bitterness. 
Blithe, the hag and the baboon 
Frisk it to the tuneless tune 
Of a sow that drums upon 
A half-rotted skeleton. 
Round me stretch the busy lines 
Of architects at their designs — 
Brothels, jails and hospitals, 
Legislatures, arsenals,